


Indulge Me

by Mousewrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Big Cock, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Scent Kink, Sensory Deprivation, Taste Kink, wild curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29047158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mousewrites/pseuds/Mousewrites
Summary: When an old magical sickness strikes Hogwart's grumpy potion professor, the new flight instructor comes out of hero retirement to save him once again.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 35
Kudos: 203





	Indulge Me

**Author's Note:**

> For Irrealia and Sammy, to mark the occasion of Covid, but thanks go to Crow, Basket, Chicken, Manatee, the Beanpod, and the rest of the nouns over on the server.

I stared at him, shocked speechless for once in my life. He shifted from foot to foot, disturbingly like the schoolboy he hadn’t been for years now, his jaw set hard, looking at the floor. His face was filling slowly with color as the silence between us thickened.

It wasn’t the only thing.

The fact that my tratorious cock was delighted by the prospect made the offer even more frustrating, and I found my voice once again.

" _Absolutely_ not. This isn't your _NEWTs_ , you can't bluff your way past a _virginity_ requirement, Potter, no matter how much you miss being a hero. Magic won’t care how hard you flutter your ridiculous eyelashes at it, and it won’t be impressed by your team’s _highly_ questionable Quidditch records.”

He glanced up at me, his eyes impossibly green against the red stain on his cheeks. “You find my eyelashes ridiculous?"

"That's not the part of that sentence you were supposed to react to!" I spun on my bootheel and stalked over to my sideboard, pouring myself a stiff drink.

My cock was decidedly stiffer.

"Arg!" I shot the good whiskey I could no longer taste or smell and thunked the glass into the wood hard enough that it left a dent. Grifola was going to have my hide. I turned back to face him, my throat full of tasteless burning from the liquid courage.

I wondered if he would let me fill his throat with something else.

He was still there, his head tipped to the side, watching me. Entirely too little terror and absolutely too much speculation in that gaze, I decided. I held up a hand to tick off my reasons he needed to stop this charade, not quite able to ignore the way his eyes locked onto it as soon as I did so.

"You cannot _possibly_ expect me to believe you are, _one_ ,” and I unfolded a finger, watching his pupils dilate, “a virgin, _two_ ,” and I unfolded a second finger, a trickle of sweat glistening on his forehead, “offering to gift that _apparently_ precious commodity to _me_ , of all people, and _three_ -YIPE!”

Before I had had a chance to unfold the third, he had stepped into my space and sucked the first two fingers into his mouth, his eyes closed tight, his hands clutching at the front of of my shirt, his instructor’s robe discarded in a pile by my doorway, leaving him only in black trousers and a jumper the color of arterial spray.

Part of my brain was sneering that he was probably leaving smears of broom oil on the cloth, but that part was being roundly shouted down by the cacophonous roar of lust that boiled up out of me. His brazen action gave lie to his claims of purity, but the tentative, kitten-like brushes of his tongue were in no way a practiced seduction. He sucked at my fingers like he was desperate to taste me, and I couldn’t stop my hand from curling into that warmth, my fingers and thumb catching his jaw with just enough pressure that his eyes fluttered open and he looked up at me again, nursing at my fingers with the wet furnace of his mouth.

“Why now?” I asked him, softly, fighting the desire pooling like molten sulfur in my belly to take what he was so guilelessly offering. I couldn’t stop my fingers from pressing a little deeper, just barely rocking them into his mouth, feeling the slide of his teeth as he tried to open his mouth wider for me.

Pothos _wept._

But old habits died harder than dark lords, and I kept my selfish hope that he would continue this charade out of my voice as I stroked my thumb up his jaw, feeling the muscles shift as he swallowed nervously. I did not moan.

Aloud.

“We’ve been colleagues for nearly five years, and it takes a wayward curse to bring you to my doorstep, armed with the _ridiculous_ premise that you somehow remain untouched, despite the legion of young beautiful things I watch crash upon your golden shores?”

He groaned around my fingers, the sound buzzing against the fingernails I lightly tapped against his tongue, and then pulled his mouth away with an obscene pop that I could feel echoing through the cage of my bones, ending with my cock jerking so hard in my trousers that I actually swayed toward him as if to catch him back.

“You have _got_ to stop saying things like that,” he said, the hand that had clutched at me so sweetly now slipping up my ribs and deftly undoing the buttons closest to it, unfairly nimble despite the strength I could feel in the grip of his other hand, held fast in my clothing like he was afraid I would run. The low, desperate way the words slipped from his lips made a shudder roll up my spine and out the top of my head, calling little hairs on the back of my neck to attention.

I shifted my leg, trying one last time to pull away from what was undoubtedly _not_ the solution to my problem and absolutely _was_ the nexus to a hundred more, but he pulled me closer, sliding up my thigh like he mounted those broomsticks of his, all firm wiry muscles despite his stature.

And part of his anatomy pressed into me eagerly, another kind of firm wood.

My resolve crumbled away under the heat of his body rutting against mine, his fingers baring a patch of my chest to his lips, his breath gusting like vented steam into my shirt. I dropped a hand to his hip and slid the other around the back of his neck, stilling his movements, catching him tight, his forehead resting over my thudding heart.

“If you spend against my leg, Potter, all of your waiting will have been for naught,” I purred, watching the way my voice stroked him as effectively as fingers that longed to do so. He huffed out a laugh and nodded, his nose brushing against the arch of my ribs, radiating gooseflesh through me.

“You believe me then?”

I carded my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, feeling it slip and run through my hand like water, ripples running down his back and driving his hips against my leg, helpless against the current. His lips moved against my skin, but if he was speaking, the sound was lost to the rush of blood through my head. I stepped into him with a growl, pulling his head back with the hand in his hair, my other hand not allowing him to shift his weight. His glasses were askew and half fogged, and the eyes behind them hardly seemed clearer, the flush on his face disappearing coyly into the worn edge of his bloody jumper.

“No,” I rumbled into his ear as I pulled again, forcing him onto his toes, rocking my thigh against the ridge I could feel trapped between us. I slid my nose against his hair, imagining the smell of him, the sweat and wool and wood and wind caught in the whorls. “I am merely calling your bluff.”

His head snapped up, and I let it for an inch or so before clenching tight in his hair, watching enraptured as he jerked to a stop a heartbeat later. His eyes pulled wide for a moment before he rebounded into my arm, a groan escaping his slack mouth. I brushed my thumb against the small of his back as I lifted my heel, his toes leaving the ground as he scrabbled for balance, his weight pressing him into me by way of his cock.

I could feel his heartbeat against my thigh.

"Be sure this is what you want," I told him, slackening my hands, letting his toes touch the floor, giving him a way out if he was unable to ask for it, "for I _will_ take the golden coin you offer, and sink my teeth through the thin veneer of your claim and into the chocolate beneath, strip you of this pretense and _consume_ you."

He was nodding before I finished, his fingers pulling open more buttons on my shirt even as he pulled himself further up my thigh. “Please,” he murmured, “not lying, but I don’t care if you believe me, just… Severus, _please_.”

Well. One can only resist temptation so long.

And a temptation he was, calloused hands sliding up my chest to pull at my shoulders, his fingertips digging into the eternally tight muscles, a sharp bright pain above the velvet ache building in my cock. I let him tug for a moment, watching his face as he realised that even with the handful of inches he had managed to grow and the constant workout of keeping eager young morons from splattering themselves against the dirt, he would have a hard time getting himself away from me without magic.

I waited for the fear, the second thoughts, but instead he melted against me, hands gripping weakly at my neck, his spine gone so liquid that he almost slid through my hands, like trying to hold onto moonlight. His cock was an iron bar against my thigh, the only stiffness left in him. “Please,” he whispered, and any desire I had to drag this impossible situation out as long as I could wilted under the roar of lust and nearly feral sense of triumph that consumed me.

As if he was _mine_. As if anything so good could be mine. Even if his claim of virginity was laughable, he radiated purity, and had done so even drenched in blood during the war. When taking life had blackened my soul, damning me inside and out, his soul was like a cleansing flame, the lives ended by his hand irredeemable, leaving him untainted, his hands washed clean with the tears of the grateful. I didn’t deserve to even look at him, let alone touch him like this.

I _wanted_ him, had burned with it since I had looked into his eyes while his hands struggled to staunch the blood pouring down my throat, and saw not his father or mother, but a man with the fierce righteous desire to save _everyone,_ and no longer gave a single modicum of shit if they wanted to be saved. Infuriating.

Intoxicating.

And here he was, offering himself with the most noble of intentions… or the most convenient excuse. But was I not a Slytherin? Never stop a man determined to give you the shirt off his back, wasn’t that the idiom? It was a lesson taught in hallways, if not the classroom. I would not turn him away; I was not that noble. I would mark his supposed purity with my stained hands, tear him open and pour what was left of my soured soul into the wound, and relish being the one doing it.

If nothing more than because he _asked it of me_.

The noise I made was miles from dignified, some unholy cross of snarl and bark of surprised laughter, as I hauled him over my shoulder like a bag of roots and strode toward my bedchamber. He laughed breathlessly and grabbed at the belt of my trousers, his fingers scrabbling against the small of my back when he found I hadn’t bothered with a belt at all. He weighed too little, even now, after years of proper food. His smallness was a novelty; I had always sought lovers more likely to be able to take what I had to offer.

Potter really should have asked, but who was I to correct him? Not his teacher, now. His cock dug into my chest, a hot smear of wetness through his trousers proving I had been right that he had almost shot in his pants, right there in my sitting room, just from rubbing against my thigh. I inhaled against his hip, but the absolute nothing I got in return was maddening. I felt half blind, and had only an inkling of how much I used my nose for things other than terrifying children before catching the curse unwillingly spread by the students, who were largely unaffected.

I, however, was of a demographic unfortunately ripe for the full effects of it, and had isolated myself as soon as the outbreak had been identified.

Fat lot of good it had done me. I had been the third person to show symptoms, and so was likely infected on day one. The outbreak was under control, according to the headmistress, though she sent a house elf with news, rather than risk telling me herself. I had smirked at her caution, and had Gifola send her a bouquet of catmint, sea holly and begonias with a bottle of scotch, a note bidding her and Poppy a pleasant weekend tucked around the cork.

Without a convenient partner, and having been as long a solitatory sot as I was, I calculated at least three weeks of quarantine left before I could even step foot outside my quarters, and with as paranoid as Minerva was being, I likely would be gently encouraged to continue to isolate until the end of the term. Add to that the possibly months before my senses of taste and smell were restored, without which I was unwilling to risk myself to most potion-making.

Unless, of course, I were to lie with a virgin, upon which all of my symptoms would immediately vanish. And virgins themselves were immune, and couldn’t even spread the curse.

Damn busybody ancestors.

Blasted archaic fertility spells. Intended to drive solitary magic folk back to society, this particular variant of it had been wandering the far east for a few years, but it had originated somewhere that didn’t exist any longer, as far as the medi-wizards had been able to tell.

At some point in the past, it had mutated, as often happens with old, wild curses. The symptoms no longer escalate past losing the small things that makes being alone bearable; the taste of food, the smells of the fire, the pleasures of your own touch. It no longer took your hearing, or your sight, or, in its final stages, your ability to feel _anything_ until you found a willing partner to lay with, or died from lack of sensation. It didn’t kill you, just made existence less pleasant. Which, of course, meant that it lingered in the caves of hermits and shut-ins, and broke out periodically, to sweep through magical communities.

Hermit’s Bane, they called it now.

I hadn’t come in nearly a month, not since my morning wank before the students had returned from the short Victory Day holiday. Nothing tasted of _anything_ , nothing smelled of _anything_ , and I could do anything I wished, except for leave these rooms, or bring myself to orgasm, or taste a BLASTED THING. No longer caused madness my bony arse. At this point I was cycling between agitated madness and bouts of zen, need prickling beneath my skin.

He had caught me in _madness_.

My hands full, I kicked the door to my chambers open, the wood creaking in complaint as it slammed against the bookcase and recoiled. He moaned like I had touched him, the sound buzzing down my shoulder to hip, and threw a hand out, stopping the door from smashing back into us with a bit wandless, _wordless_ magic that only made me burn hotter for him.

He was choosing this. I couldn’t force him if I tried, not without my potions, and maybe even with them. He was, quite simply, more powerful than I.

My heart thumped as I dumped him on the bed, the red of his jumper a splash of gore as he bounced across my gray sheet, like I had snatched an organ from my chest and cast it away from me. An exposed slice of his stomach caught my eye as I dragged my gaze up his sprawled form, the jumper rucked up, the flesh as untouched as new growth. My mouth watered, as if I could taste him. His glasses hung off his pink face, his hair standing out from his head, small ringlets stuck to his damp forehead. He blinked up at me for a moment, pushing his glasses back into place with the back of his hand.

“Last chance,” I said, reaching slowly for the buttons at my throat. He grinned at me cheekily for a moment, waggling his eyebrows, but then frowned, his eyes sliding away from me.

I paused, reaching down to touch his knee where it lay over the edge of the bed. “Harry, what did I say?”

He looked up at me, and I was surprised to see actual apprehension on his face. I pulled back and he shook his head, hooking his foot behind my thigh and pulling me back toward the bed. “Just nerves. Go slow, eh, my first time, remember?” His cocky grin returned when he saw me reach down to adjust my length, trapped against my leg.

“Oh, we’re still doing that?” I said, and tisked. “Well then, little virgin, if you need me to stop, just say stop. I have no taste for the unwilling, pure or otherwise.” My fingers went back to my throat, undoing the rest of my shirt buttons, letting the black linen hang open as I leaned forward and reached for the waistband of his trousers. I paused, and glanced up his body at him, and he wordlessly nodded, all green, glittering eyes and pinked skin.

He wasn’t wearing a belt either, and I hummed, pleased, as I deftly undid his fly and hooked my fingers into his trousers and pants together, stripping them off of him with a swift pull that lifted his hips and knees before his feet cleared the trouser legs and he bounced back to the again, his cock slapping against his thigh, laughter spilling from his lips as I tossed his clothing over my shoulder.

Grifola was going to poison my tea for the mess we were making, but I decided I just didn’t care anymore.

The room was too cold for this. I wanted to see all of him.

My cock throbbed, looking down at this hero of the light, half naked and sprawled on my bed and _wanting to be there._ I lit the hearth with muttered word and a flick of my hand, and the fire roared into life, splashing the walls with golden firelight, the sudden heat on my back coming close to the heat building in my spine, but nowhere as engrossing. I was gratified that his eyes widened and he looked impressed.

I was not showing off. That would be ridiculous.

Plus, he could have done it without the word. He had set Death Eaters’ hems ablaze halfway across the battlefield, causing frantic, screaming panic among the faithful. It is astounding how hard it is to remember basic magic when your clothes are aflame.

I had to have him.

I was on him in the next heartbeat, kneeling astride his thighs, pulling his jumper up impatiently. He laughed, and batted at my hands. “Stop, it’s handmade, Hermione’ll have my hide if I have to have her fix it again…” and I shut him up with my mouth, desperate to make him incapable of worrying about such triflings as snagged knitwear.

Imagine being powerful enough to strike down the Dark Lord but forget that you could mend clothing with a word. Last week I caught him sweeping the broomshed with a broom that looked entirely unsuitable for riding.

He tasted like… nothing, and I growled into his mouth, searching it for a hint that this was actually happening, that the hair tangled around my fingers was not a hallucination, that the hands sliding around my ribs to dig calloused fingers into the knotted muscles of my back were not a fever dream brought on by this blasted archaic curse. He kissed like he had no idea what he was doing, as if my tongue in his mouth was a surprise.

I broke the kiss just long enough to pull the jumper over his head and then pressed close again, gentling my frantic exploration as the heat of his skin soaked through the layers of isolation around me, like sunlight on permafrost, melting my defenses.

He pulled away, panting, licking his lips as his head fell back to the bed with little moan. His hips arched into mine, the head of his cock sparking fire against my skin, and I joined him in moaning. Despite my stern mental admonishment not to, my hand found his length and stroked him from root to tip, his flesh smooth and hot and hard as iron under my fingers.

“Oh god, wait wait-” he gasped, and I let go immediately, watching his face for signs of distress, but he just snuck his hand between us and pulled hard at his bollocks, grimacing through short breaths. I arched an eyebrow, and he laughed softly, even as embarrassment crept over his cheeks.

“Do you make it a habit of spending the moment your partners touch you?” I drawled, and his eyes rolled.

“You’re an arse, even if you are fit. Haven’t been touched by anybody else, have I?” He leaned up on his elbows, catching my lips, kissing me with more confidence than before, stroking his tongue over my bottom lip in a motion I recognised from doing it to him moments ago.

… as if he had just learned how.

I froze, the idea that he might actually be telling the truth, might _actually_ be virginal shooting through me like splinters of wood, piercing the farce of him calling me, of all people, fit. His mouth moved against my still one for another second before he stopped, pulling back nervously. “What-” he started, before I pushed him up the bed farther and vanished my clothing, letting him see the situation we apparently had found ourselves in.

His eyes dropped and widened comically. All the color drained out of his face except for his kiss-swollen lips and two blazing spots on his cheeks. He seemed to be having trouble processing, and I indulged in a smirk, stroking myself, watching his eyes follow as if mesmerized.

I had been given, by the wheels of fate, a variety of challenges that had little to do with my class or my choices; a hooked nose, overactive sebaceous glands, a terrible vicious streak with a propensity toward petty revenge, and, perhaps in an attempt at amends for all of that, a truly prodigious endowment.

“Uh…” he said, and I chuckled, leaning back a little and dropping my other hand behind me to trace it over the wet head of his cock, tugging lightly at his foreskin, doing the same to mine under his hungry gaze.

“Backing away from a challenge? Not very courageous of you, I must say.” He was shaking his head before I had even finished the sentence, reaching for me with his free hand, his tentative exploration made all the more intense by the fingertips roughened by broom handling. Pleasure skittered up nerves long used to only my own touch. He slid his hand up, tried to encircle it with his fingers, and looked up at my face as if I had hung the moon.

Or was, perhaps, hung like the moon.

“How have you kept this thing secret?” he said, amazement in his voice as he leaned up on one elbow and bent closer, his breath over the head making the skin on my balls writhe. A faint gasp escaped my lips despite myself, and he looked up at me, a familiar, cocky grin flashing over his face before he opened his fractious mouth wide and attempted to impale himself on it.

I would have loved to mock his utter failure to take more than a third of me, but I was too busy trying not to come as he choked, his throat squeezing down in protest against the sudden intrusion. I got one hand into his tangled hair and pulled him off, patting his back and wiping the drool splattering his chin. I plucked his glasses off and spelled them to the wall above my bed for safe keeping. His chest heaved between my thighs as I slid a little closer to that panting, open mouth, his hips rising behind me, either to get friction on his neglected cock, or slide me closer to his waiting heat, I wasn’t sure.

It didn’t matter, anyway.

“You would think I would know better than to challenge your bravery,” I said, and rubbed my thumb over his lower lip, pulling his mouth open again. I cupped my hand under his jaw, squeezing slightly. “Let me show you, you can’t just shove your face on it like an over-excited niffler.” He rolled his eyes, amusement fighting with lust on his face until I stroked the crown of my cock over his tongue, pulling him forward with my hand around the back of his head and the other cupping his jaw, whereupon the lust suddenly found itself the only combatant on the field.

I found myself in the strangest predicament, as he was determined to take much more of me than he was prepared to, and my body instistantly demanded we give in to what he was so sweetly asking for, but I held firm, feeding him a few centimeters as a time, holding him back from taking more with a clench of my fingers, his moan vibrating around the stretched pink ring of his lips.

“Look at you,” I murmured, even as my heartbeat thundered in my chest, moving to cup my hands around his face, feeling the stretch and slide of my cock through his skin. I brushed my thumbs down the bridge of his nose, across the delicate arch of his cheekbones. “So eager, so willing. You ask how I have hidden my secrets, how have you denied yourself _this_ , when you clearly love it so?”

He moaned around me, tongue pressing up as much as he could, trying to shove himself down another inch, his eyes watering as he choked again. I grunted and pulled him off of me, my body howling to ride his willing face into the mattress, to let him batter his gag reflex into submission with as much delicacy as he did anything else, which is to say, very little.

My breath sawed out of my lungs, my cock springing loose and bobbing like a drunk before sagging under its own weight, pulsing a throbbing echo to my heartbeat. He whined and tried to catch the end of it in his mouth again, and I pressed his head to the bed with the heel of my hand on his forehead, clutching at the wild hair.

It took me a few tries to get anything resembling a coherent sentence out, and all the while he twisted against my control, his chin shiny with spit, whining as if I had taken his favorite toy. “It’s… hn, it's not a snitch, you don’t have to swallow it to win-” I got out, when he writhed away from my grasp and latched on again, sealing his lips just under the crown and sucking hard enough to make my eyes cross, my body stiffening as if his lips were conductive, my brain entirely shorting out.

He was the one who pulled away this time, his head falling back onto the bed, working his jaw from side to side as if it ached. It took another few heartbeats for my vision to return, and I just stared at him as he rubbed his cheeks, trying to put my thoughts into something more coherent than “Open wide.”

“That’s… quite the bat you have there,” he said, that damnable grin breaking out again as he smacked his lips, and a laugh escaped me even as I leaned forward to lick my way into his mouth, disappointed that I couldn't taste myself. He wrapped his arms around my neck and pulled me closer, his kisses rapidly becoming more adventurous. I tugged on his lip with my teeth, and he twitched, his breath hitching. I wondered, suddenly, if the universe really could be so kind to a bitter bastard like me, and roughly pulled his head to the side, biting hard at his neck.

Harry moaned like a floo-point whore, the noise buzzing against my sack before escaping from his filthy mouth, his hips bucking hard enough that the wet head of his cock kissed the small of my back.

Of course.

Lust swamped my brain, ridding me of anything like thought. I slid down to grind my aching cock against his stomach, his hitching breath pressing against me like a hand. He clutched at my hips, and I hoped bruises would bloom under the press of his fingertips. I rutted against him for a dizzying second before wrenching away, rolling over onto my back next to him with a groan.

“I believe you are going to be the death of me, Potter,” I managed, which would have sounded much more imposing had he not rolled and latched onto my nipple like a pond leach, his name ending in an undignified yelp. His fingertips found my other nipple, and I writhed against the bed as he bit down, my cock bouncing against his arm.

He pushed up on his elbow, rubbing his hand across his wet mouth. “Yeah yeah, heard it before,” he said with another grin, and stroked his hand up my length, his fingers maddeningly light and quick, learning my shape and texture. I shuddered, pleasure skittering along my nerves like drops of dew on a red hot crucible. “So, how, exactly is this going to work,” he said, and I raised an eyebrow even as I slid my hand down to complete his grip around me, guiding his hand into a leisurely stroke, firmer than before, my other hand tracing idle patterns across the wings of his shoulder blades, sighing as the slow, familiar rhythm helped pull me from closer to the edge than I was willing to admit.

“If I had realized you needed a diagram, I would have conjured a blackboard beforehand,” I drawled, and he laughed and nipped my ribs, his hair brushing over our joined knuckles, still moving in long, slow pulls. I hissed and throbbed in his hand, and he looked up at me, his mouth carmine against the toad belly white of my skin, amusement and desire flickering in his eyes.

His tongue drew a question mark over my skin, the dot a hard bite that made me curl.

“Hhhh… ah, yes, well, there will need to be a bit of stretching, first…” I gasped as his mouth latched onto my nipple again, his tongue drawing little circles around it. When I didn’t continue, he hummed something that could have been ‘and..?’ but the buzzing of his voice through the gentle press of his teeth made static crackle across my brain and I lost track of what I was saying.

He rolled his eyes when I blinked at him owlishly, and pulled his hand away from my cock with a twist that wrung both a groan from my throat and tears from my cock, bringing his fingers up to his mouth to taste drops caught on his fingertips. I licked my lips without thought, and he glanced into my eyes for a fraction of a second, swiping his fingers through the puddle I had been slowly dripping onto my stomach and sloppily tracing it over my lips like gloss. His head thunked into the bed with a moan as I sucked his fingers into my mouth, the slick tasteless as iocaine, before he surged up to eat the taste off my lips, his fingers stuffed in my mouth along with his tongue.

We fell apart, panting, staring at the stones of my ceiling for a few moments.

“So then, stretching,” he said finally, and I turned to make some kind of comment, only to have the words crumble into nonsense on my tongue as he rolled over and pushed himself up on his knees and elbows, his arse presented like some kind of feast.

Struck dumb again. I hoped it was a symptom that would fade in time, but I suspected otherwise.

He looked back at me around the curve of his bicep, and the coquettish flutter of his lashes didn’t hide the way his toes rubbed nervously at the sheets.

I wanted to rip him in half and then kiss him better as I bandaged the parts back together.

Madness. I had gone utterly mad.

I shifted slightly and pulled his knees wide enough that I could bracket my head with them, and he peered down at me, his cheeks red but the flush on the fruit hanging temptingly close was redder. I slid my fingers up to hold tight around the base of him as I lapped at the crinkled skin, imagining the salt and musk, sucking each tempting mouthful individually before casting a wandless, wordless spell that had him gasping, his knees sliding apart and his hips pressing my face into the mattress.

I huffed a laugh into the pleasantly smothering weight of his balls, now trussed with a golden band just wide enough to keep him on the edge without letting him over. He moaned something into the mattress, but I couldn’t hear with my ears covered by his thighs as I manhandled his arse over my mouth and pulled him down to me, splitting him with my thumbs like a peach.

Conjured by lack of stimuli, my brain painted him in hallucinogenic flavors of woodsmoke and musk, sweat and salt and ozone as I feasted, my fingers joining my tongue only when his arms had given out and he was wailing his gibberish into the mattress, his cock red and bouncing against his stomach. He kept forgetting what we were about and grabbing for his shaft, and I batted his hands away for the third time before pulling away from his hole with a carnal slurp that sent gooseflesh racing over his skin. I lapped at the head of his cock, taut and scarlet, and imagined lightning and burnt sugar. His hands made snarls in my hair, trying to tug me one way or the other, but this was my indulgence, and I would not be rushed.

The angle wasn’t ideal, but I got most of him down my throat while he thrashed and begged, his knees spreading as wide as he could get them, my nose smashed into crinkly black hair. I slid my hand up, rubbing at the spit-slick hole, pressing a fingertip into him, feeling him shift and pulling away just as he jerked backward, trying to force the issue.

Gryffindors.

Unwilling to leave my prize, I flung my hand out and summoned a jar of lube as hard as one can with a cock down one’s throat, only to nearly choke on it as not only the jar from my nightstand smacked into my hand, but a small hailstorm of other potions rattled their way out of forgotten drawers and behind books, a noisy, dusty accounting of all the places I had stuck a convenient bottle in pursuit of personal pleasures.

What can I say, I’m a hermit, not a monk.

He snorted a giggle into the bed once he realized what had pelted him. “Do I want to know why you need a hundred bottles of lube?”

I ignored his question, rolling my tongue back and forth across the thumping vein on the underside of his cock, and unscrewed the jar, digging out two fingerfulls of the thick formulation I preferred and then screwing it shut again, all with the hand that wasn’t trying to coax his body to relax. I wasn’t sure which bit of dexterity his moan was about, but I could feel the tremble in his thighs.

“Hnnnn how are you even real? Can you even breathe? Oh god, you know what, decided I don’t even care what you are just please, please don’t stop doing that, oh fucking _hell-_ ” and I choked on the laugh he got out of me with that, which only made him babble harder as I sputtered around him.

I pulled away for a moment to cough, my forehead pressed to his trembling abdomen. We were both wet with sweat, and I licked a stripe over the head of his cock, feeling the muscles clench around me.

The lube warmed quickly to my touch, and by the time I slid my fingers over his hole, the glob had melted into silky unctuousness that I pressed into him with reverent, eager fingers. I swallowed him down again, and then pulled his hips toward the bed, guiding him into fucking my throat, though he clearly was afraid he would hurt me, even as I opened him on my fingers.

He gripped at my fingers with muscles unused to intrusion, and even if I could still pretend I thought he was lying about being a virgin, at least as far as his arse was concerned, he was. I longed for an extra hand to wrap around my cock, and then almost hurt myself rolling my eyes while deepthroating. It didn’t take much urging to get him to sit up, though he swayed between my mouth and fingers like a willow in a stiff breeze, and I pulled his hand down to my neglected cock.

He always did learn quickly, once motivated.

He leaned back, wrapping both hands around my cock and pumping it in rhythm to his hips, his face staring down at me with eyes blown wide with pleasure. The position made his arse clench around my fingers too tightly to thrust, so I hooked them and pulled him deeper into my mouth with a hard press to his prostate.

He _squealed_ , there was no other word for it, and dropped my cock to grab at my head, panting. “What the fu-” and which was entirely too coherent for my liking, so I circled my fingers over that spot, again and again, until he had devolved into near mindless begging, his cock pulsing tasteless and hot every time I came up for air.

He hardly noticed the third finger, or perhaps was just too far gone, his fists clenched so hard in my hair that my eyes would be watering, if they already hadn’t been from his enthusiastic rutting. I felt like some kind of storm god, forging lightning between my teeth, on my fingertips, his chest the bellows that worked the fire in my spine into incandescence.

I could wait no longer. I spilled him off of me, his sputtering moan as gratifying as his inability to get his limbs in order, his thighs glistening with lube, his hand reaching for me even though he looked unable to point to up, at the moment.

I pushed onto my knees, snagging the jar of lube and having trouble with the lid, as covered in spit and lube as I was, and I vanished the glass instead, the entire contents settling into my hand and immediately starting to melt from the heat, running between my fingers and down my arm. I grabbed his knee with my other hand, easily flipping him onto his back, his legs dropping open without prompting.

Beautiful, burning red and gold, his hair a scorched halo against my sheets.

I slathered the handful of lube over my length, sighing as the momentary coolness brought me down a few notches, and I carefully turned my hand coating the fingers thoroughly. He watched me from beneath dark lashes, his hole clenching on nothing as I reached for him, but I wrapped my slick hand around his length, pumping him back to writhing urgency.

A muttered spell took care of the rest of my preparations, and I bent his knees, putting his feet on the bed.

“Please, come on, hn now, please,” he was muttering, his eyes sliding shut and then popping open as if he was afraid to miss a moment.

“Shhhh, just close your eyes, we’re just about there.” My voice was wrecked, hoarse and wet from his cock, and I coughed it clean as I smeared the last of the lube into place. I shifted my weight on the bed, settling one hand on his chest, the other sliding down to hold him in place.

I watched the shivers running down him, trembling like occupied pond water. I licked my lips, tasting nothing, and took a last, scentless breath.

And then I impaled myself on his cock in one swift thrust.

We both yelled, I think, though the noise that ripped from my throat seemed all the louder for the blood thundering in my ears. Loosening spells notwithstanding, it had been years since another living soul had taken me such, and the burning stretch wrenched a gush of slick from my cock to patter onto his stomach.

His hand gripped my hip, the other sliding up my ribs, pulling at me, his mouth open and stunned, struck mute.

“Finally,” I whispered, and lifted an inch or two before dropping back down again. My body shivered and relented, and he slid all the way home with a feeling like a lock clicking open.

Romantic twattle.

He whined, and I grinned down at him, settling more comfortably on my knees. I let his hands guide me for a few moments, but his reluctance to use the considerable strength I could feel drove me to ride him at my own pace, instead, knowing my own limits far better than he did.

For now anyway.

The sudden thought that this might not be the only time I was allowed to bask in this pleasure almost ended it for me right there, and I pressed a hand into myself, hard, still working my hips over him, the bed jolting. He felt _glorious_ , big enough to stretch and I fucked him against my prostate, my breath catching every time he bottomed out, my balls pressed into the nest of dark hair by my bouncing cock.

He was thrashing as if I were electrocuting him, his hips finally snapping up to meet mine with the force I knew he had in him, his hands finding my cock despite my intention of chasing my orgasm without it, and his perfect, pink mouth opened wide, his eyes finding mine as he jerked me frantically with both hands.

Did he mean for me to- surely not?

“Please,” he whispered, licking his lips and stuttering over the words, his heartbeat fluttering in his neck. “Please, wanna _taste it_.”

Lightning shot up my spine and I roared as I came hard, thick ropes shooting from my cock to splash against his face, falling into his open mouth, but also marking his cheeks, hair, halfway down his neck with pearly stripes of seed. He moaned as he licked it off of his lips and swallowed, his throat working, and I groaned again, shuddering as his hips snapped up, chasing his own climax.

I leaned forward and slid more of my come into his mouth with trembling fingers, and canceled the spell on the tie around his balls. He groaned in relief, and I clenched down and rode him hard, pushing come into his mouth, snapping my hips as if to break one of us.

He shattered, jerking forward and then falling back, his head tipped back, his mouth wide open in a soundless scream.

I could see my come on his tongue.

My balls twitched as if I could come again, and he jerked, heat filling me. He stuttered a long, breathy laugh, and I stooped to claim his lips, the taste of my come in his mouth flooding my senses, and I gasped as all the missing senses lit up, the smell of sweat and lube and the faint traces of butterscotch and sandalwood and ozone, my mouth suddenly gushing with saliva even as I shook at the sudden overload.

His arms slipped around me, and the smell of his skin was intoxicating. I collapsed against him, his cock slipping from my body with a wet noise that promised neither of us would be escaping the wet spot any time soon. We ended up on our sides, somehow, my head pressed into the curve of his stomach as he curled over my head, his legs tangled with mine. Like two drops of ink, swirled into tea.

I felt sleep lapping at my brain, and I clung to him, afraid that he would be gone in the morning, a fever dream of monstrous proportions. “Stay,” I murmured into his skin.

Stay real, I meant. Stay with me.

His breath was hot on the back of my neck, his heartbeat steady against my skull. “I am,” he whispered, dragging a blanket over us with a wave of his hand.

I pulled him closer as I fell asleep, the scent of ozone and burnt sugar on my tongue.


End file.
